


Hello, Neighbor

by xmy_stone_cold_heartx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-21 13:35:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14916326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xmy_stone_cold_heartx/pseuds/xmy_stone_cold_heartx
Summary: You move into No. 221b A-C as a respectable Psychologist from Cornwall. Despite your "flavorsome" occupants living above you, you're ready to accept settling down and living the quiet life. That is, until  you are unexpectedly pulled into the world of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson for good after serial murders in the backstreets of London come dangerously close into your life.It seems a crime lord has risen from the depths that only a trio of doctors, detectives and psychologists can catch.Once a neighbor, always a neighbor, right?





	1. Moving in, moving on

**Author's Note:**

> Happy reading, ugh London is such a special place for me as a Londoner so I hope you enjoy this.  
> 

“It’s Crawford. Clarice Crawford“

You hold out your hand proudly, subtlety but explicitly showing off your manicured nails that you totally had time to do despite moving house.

Sherlock takes it in awe shaking it up and down rapidly.

“yes of course Dr. Crawford! Or can I call you Clarice? I’ve heard so much! Wait until you meet Doctor Watson!”

You flipped your neatly brushed hair over your shoulder and roll your eyes looking up at him through your lashes and thick fringe.

“Actually, John and are close associates,” you correct “He’s helping me shift all these boxes downstairs” .

You both share a smile before he coughs and unlocks the entrance to No.221 A-C , ushering you inside as you hear the click of the door behind you, finally feeling at home. “Tea?”

...

Yeah. As you can imagine that _didn’t_ happen.

Unfortunately, the real outcome wasn’t as quite as magical and perfect as you had expected.

You’d kept this scenario in your head on a loop with high hopes the entire train journey from Truro, Cornwall all the to Paddington station. 

You hailed a taxi as best you could with three boxes, a Classic Kånken backpack and a suitcase in the busy street outside Paddington Station, where nobody seemed to care who you were or if you were struggling as long as you were out of their way.

You step towards the direction of the taxi when a busy red faced man in a sharp suit talking on his mobile crashes into you.

“Sorry!” you called from behind your boxes . But he ignores you, still barking down the phone, probably off returning to a wife and family to eat dinner for the evening. Lucky him.

In your head it would’ve been a bright, sunshiny day and the like.

As soon as you’d noticed the little drops of rain on the cab’s window panes, you knew immediately things were going to go south. The weather quickly put doubt in my your and pulled you back into reality.You were biting your nails the whole way- not so manicured after all.

221 A-C is even prettier in person, even with the pouring rain and peeling paint you couldn’t ignore the sense of home radiating from it. It was kinda cosy for a street slap-bang in the middle of central London, not far from where you’d grown up as a teen, and you had gotten a good deal from one of your late grandmother’s friends, now what was the name? Mrs. Harriet? Or was it Mrs. Holland?…oh well...

You hand the driver the cash when you pull up curtly to Baker Street.

When you’ve finally wrestled your luggage out of the taxi-without help from the driver, _welcome to London_ \- you find there was nobody to greet you at the door or to help either as the heavens opened properly.

Supposedly, you lived in the “basement” of No. 221, Grandma explained there were two men living just above you, they sounded quite mundane in your opinion. Maybe mundane was what you needed, you weren’t getting any younger after all, all your friends were off getting married and having children (an idea you couldn’t bare). You’d already lived so many adventures. But why stop now? Maybe this was to be your final adventure.

Your hands were shaking from the cold and wet as stupidly you had forgotten London’s unpredictability when it came to weather, wearing nothing but shorts, a tank top and grubby Converse sneakers. Back in Cornwall, you could get away with that kind of clothing even in November. People were out sunbathing in St Ives for Christ’s sake.

You stood there for a full five minutes trying to get the key in the door until you gave up and tried knocking instead as pain pricked at your soaking and sore knuckles. You paused to wait and look behind you checking to see if anyone was coming up the road when all of a sudden it creaked open. To your surprise you were greeted with a saucepan dripping soap suds and yellow gloves clutching the door frame to stop you entering and seeing past. The saucepan was brought closer to your face in threat.

“Beat it” the canary rubbers hissed at you “don't you know who lives here?” but the voice sounded scared through its fierce front.

You frown and found your strength, “yeah. Me” pushing the door open it wider prising the fingers off so you could see in.

The scowl on your face, hair soaked, and luggage scattered you can’t imagine what in the world you looked like, but the saucepan and gloves shifted and revealed a soft, worn face of a lady. Her expression changed from suspicion to curiosity, she adjusted the John Lennon spectacles onto her powdered nose, peering at you closer despite her petite height and opened the door further to allow you in from the wet, deciding you were not a threat after all. 

You square your shaking shoulders.

“I’m Crawford, Cla-“

“Oh yes, Clarice!”

The realization hit her as she smacked her forehead tutting.

"well you should have said you were coming so soon ,dear!” she crackled “I wasn’t expecting you until later!”

“I did ring” You study the stuffy corridor, trying to find your flat and get away from this erratic woman.

 

“three times” you add.

There was a set of stairs leading to what must have been 221 B. A door at the far corridor read "A" .

“Sorry about your Nana dear” she smiled softly  “She’s in a better place now though, eh?” 

“I expect so” you offered back though truthfully, you hadn’t known your Grandma that long, most likely it was the distance in your relationship.

Sneakily, you spied a brown electricity bill on the small mahogany table beside you addressed to a Mrs. M . L Hudson. Hudson! That was it. 

The elderly woman nodded placing a hand on your shoulder before snatching it back.  "Oh dear you're just freezing, let me fix you something warm. Wait here."

All in all, it wasn’t a bad place, you could tell; the hall was well attended , a nice rug, some plant pots brightly painted and wallpaper that didn’t have a single tear. It was narrow but still nice. You hoped your own flat would look just as nice. Maybe you got a good deal for a reason.

Mrs. Hudson turned away from you mumbling under her breath, disappearing into 221 A allowing you to catch your breath and push back your hair from clinging to your face and think for a while ad figure out how you would make it down to the basement steps with all your boxes and whatnot without breaking your neck. 

There was no way a lady of her age could help you shift this heavy cargo, then again, she was ready to batter you with a saucepan so who knows.

From what you’d read on the estate agents’ website previous tenants recalled turning down 221C or staying for very short times; mostly because of the Land Lady's behavior not to mention "funny habits" that left a stagnant smell reeking throughout the building.  Many commented on the mystery surrounding 221 B’s other occupants that they seemed to find unnerving, "we never met them" one stated " who knows what they were doing lurking around upstairs" another said. Personally to you, no mayhem was good news. The occupants kept private; good for them...God knows where they were now.

You stopped your gazing around when you heard padding footsteps come closer “Here you go, lovely” she produced a rough white jumper that looked as if it had seen better days, and felt like it to when you pulled it on.

"I'm sorry but it's all i could find" she apologized almost embarrassed. "I'm not too sure the boiler is working either". 

From her pinafore pouch, she also revealed a black iron key with a cursive tag attached reading: “C”. Gratefully, you took it thankful for the jumper and  to could get out of her hair quickly.

“Will you be needing anything else? A cup of Tea perhaps?” she smiled kindly.

“No. Thank you “ as you struggled to open C and lug the case across the floor before she could interject. A  land lady who offers cups of tea? Your previous Landlord would have handed you the key and ignored you for the next eight months- that was until rent was due of course.

“Well keep in mind dear, I’m your land lady not your house keeper” she looked down her glasses, arms folded across her Kath Kidstone pinafore.

“I will” you called out balancing a box under your arm and putting the rest on the foot of the stairs, shutting 221 C’s door behind you swiftly. Home sweet home.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From mainly John's perspective:   
> Sorry it took so long !

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!

John looked from the body Sherlock to the body again.

“it looks like-“

“I know what it looks like”

The older man held back his sigh. “-like murder, I was going to say. Triple murder”.

Sherlock was bent over the corpse studying its pupils with a miniature magnifying glass, the chilly wind that whipped The River Thames brought the detective's raven curls to life cloaking his face from Dr. Watson’s view.

Oh God, Sherlock was thinking again. His thinking could last for weeks on end. Unbearable at times. Although when he did speak, Sherlock could be unbearable then too. In the few months John had flat shard with this man of marvel he found him to be cold at times, callous even in his way of feeling. No, he _could_ feel (John was certain), he just didn’t understand why, or when it was appropriate to feel a particular emotion. Or maybe it was safer this way, no strings attached seemed the simpler option.

_“sometimes I don’t talk for weeks on end. Would that bother you?”_

At the time John had thought it was an exaggeration. How could one possibly not talk for a week? That was Sherlock. Always defying the impossible. Sherlock never ceased to amaze John through his incredible talent of deduction. Nevertheless, that night, in the swimming pool, it was John who surprised himself as he had risked his own life to save someone he barely knew – someone he trusted, Sherlock Holmes.

That night, John had felt something different, understanding perhaps. It was madness, he trusted Sherlock Holmes. The pair would never be the same again.

The drizzling rain that morning had put everyone in a sour mood even Greg Lestrade (or “Gavin” in some cases *Cough, Sherlock*) who just wanted the case cleared up as quickly as possible, and solved -preferably with the suspect alive, this time Sherlock.

Lestrade desperately wanted it swept up in a big brown folder shoved at the back of a storage room before another victim was found and more paperwork was to be filled out for something that quite frankly _wasn’t_ his division actually, Sergeant Donovan.

Holmes wasn’t in his regular mode of interest during the “The case of Three” as the police had nicknamed it after each victim had had a deep number ‘3’ inscribed on their wrists, presumably after death deduced Dr. Watson. So, three victims in three weeks. The second victim had been found with a Celtic symbol beside his cold body and a final word splattered in his blood. “Freedom” The suspect wanted one thing, “freedom” and nothing more. Whatever that meant.

The case wasn’t open to the public yet until they were sure it was not foreign enemies, or a clue to an upcoming terror attack on London, something for MI6 to deal with, something like him. So far, no journalists had been sniffing around, even more suspicious.

It seemed the giddiness Sherlock built up declaring it to be “Christmas, John!” this morning had all but left him dry and sorely uninterested. He wanted to leave.

“it’s the third body this month, Sherlock we can’t just go home” John had pointed out to him at the entrance of the crime scene, an ugly, abandoned block of offices. Though, secretly John shared his desire to return to 221B but hey, one of them had to keep professional.

John considered ordering in, too tired to even consider cooking and there was no chance he would be going out tonight. Maybe Chinese for a change. The blonde man pondered then he remembered his last encounter with Chinese Takeaway with Sarah, his old girlfriend and quickly discarded the idea. He hadn’t been on a date since.

Sherlock had been in a funny mood recently, John began to wonder if he was a touch ill in his behavior, it would certainly explain his erratic mood swings and sudden quietness. But he was always like that in a case.

_High functioning Sociopath, Watson_ , imaginary Sherlock corrected looking down his nose at him.

Then of course there was him, the “he who must not be named” crime lord of London. The man John dare not mention in front of Sherlock.

Moriarty.

“It’s not him, John” Sherlock promised as both their eyes raked over the third body this month without a name, address or background. Assassins. All of them. So who kills a killer? Good question.

A question that could wait for tomorrow when they could infer no more.

Both men undress from their forensic suits and begin to pack up for the night. Sherlock went on ahead ducking under the police tape, without bothering to check if John was following. John briefly filled Lestrade in on their combined deduces of the body:Caucasian male; around early 30s, unknown background but tattoos scream ex-con and scars shriek a killer. His fingers still held residue marks from a gun. He knew he was near death. Perhaps an enemy got to him.

“Taxi!” was the only talking Sherlock would be doing this evening. And for once, that didn’t bother John, a quiet night in was well needed, a chance to get his head down.

Neither of them talked during the stop-start chug along the crowded roads. Leister Square was a nightmare at 9:35 on Friday.

John- as usual- pays the driver in his petty change and closes the door envisioning the blissful sleep he would get now that Sherlock wouldn’t be “bored” for a while (no bullets in the walls at all hours thank God!). Finally, some proper shut eye. He needed it.

No. 221 is unusually quiet when both men step inside, even Mrs/ Hudson cannot be heard screaming along to a Queen song.

Sherlock goes upstairs not making a sound on the creaky floorboards, John removes his jacket, his head leaded, sleep calling he hung up his jacket ignoring his old cane that was in the umbrella box in the corner, until he heard the shatter of what sounded like a teacup and Sherlock shouting.

“John! John there is a woman in the kitchen!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've made it this far so thanks for reading and don't forget to leave Kudos xxx

**Author's Note:**

> You've made it this far so thanks for reading and don't forget to leave Kudos! Xx


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